


Bluebirds

by Ruaki



Category: Exos Heroes (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:34:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29261304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruaki/pseuds/Ruaki
Summary: His singing was beautiful.
Relationships: Rachel/Ramge (Exos Heroes)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Bluebirds

**Author's Note:**

> While going through some personal files, I came across one of those "Imagine your OTP" prompts; this one fell along the lines of "Person A is a good singer and Person B finds out," though with a few more caveats. I had already filled this prompt for another fandom, but upon remembering that Ramge's KR CV is very well-known for being a capable singer, decided to try it again.

**i.**

Today was a leisure day for the King's Guard as Captain Rudley had been summoned away, so Rachel was taking this time to reaffirm his connections amongst the servants. Since servants were expected to be unseen as they worked, they had access to information not privy to the public. Young servants were especially notorious gossip-mongers, and Rachel had learned early on how useful it was to cultivate an intel network among the help.

He hadn't been staying at the palace for more than a fortnight, but he had already gotten friendly with a number of them—his handsome face and rakish charm working overtime—and though he was young, he was a veteran at the game.

Truth be told, he hated playing it; the duplicity of politics fueled a fierce hatred in him that always simmered away at the back of his mind. But if he wanted to survive, he had to navigate the webs of power, and he had to be more than just good at it—he had to be better than his opponents.

And this fact was why the Prince of Saint West was strolling along an open-air colonnade toward the servants' housing. The lesser nobles could afford to play on a day off, but the idle would never gain a kingdom.

It was a mild spring morning, a soft breeze playing with the scent of flowers in blue skies. The faintest whiff of the day's meal rose from the kitchens. Sun sparkled through water cascading from the many decorative fountains lining the colonnade, casting fragments of light upon the shining marble columns, radiating the illusion that they were cast from diamonds. The palace's domed towers gleamed, akin to jewels rising from the fertile lands of Lenombe, ready to be plucked and admired by the gods. Everywhere was the sign of lavish prosperity, befitting the central hub of the continent's seat of power.

To Rachel, who grew up in extravagance, this was all very ordinary. One palace would be like any other: the antithesis of an oyster—pearl on the outside, ugliness within.

So when the first crystal notes lifted by the wind reached him, he didn't pay them any mind. A fine day such as this was bound to draw out the idle gentry to lounge about on the many balconies or recreation decks overlooking the city, accompanied by fine delicacies, vintage wine, the latest intrigue, and a troubadour for ambiance.

The voice was rich, clear dulcet tones marred only a lack of training, but this made it more pure like birdsong. Yet there was a dark undercurrent that turned Rachel's head; despite himself, he listened more carefully, the music stirring something ugly inside him.

He recognized the song. The lyrics were different, but he knew the melody, a lilting singsong tailored for children. It had been sung to him in faded days past, before he had been christened into the world through violence. Even the melody alone was enough to trigger a flash of memory, and though it had been years and other memories had faded, this one was still visceral.

He passed a hand over his face, shaking those thoughts away. They clung like leeches—pulling them off still left marks.

Curious as to who would have a bard sing nursery rhymes to them, Rachel approached the edge of the colonnade, peering past a column. Below was a broad open balcony that commanded a sweeping vista of the city of Khuntara. A slim marble staircase to the right granted access into this partially hidden, out of the way spot, perfect for clandestine meetings.

Singing quietly to an attentive black cat perched atop the balustrade was Ramge of North von Frosty. Rachel was familiar with the gloomy Northern prince as they were both in the King's Guard; however, the extent of their current interactions had been merely the exchange of necessary pleasantries. His first impression of Ramge, when Captain Rudley had gathered the King's Guard together for introductions, was that he was skittish and deferential, someone easy to overlook and equally as forgettable afterward. He was tall and thin, with a sharp countenance painted in a porcelain paleness, heightened by tousled raven hair and the only spots of color on his face: unique, off-putting red eyes, which didn't converge on anything so much as drift over the world, misty, anxious, oblique. To see him singing to a cat as if nothing else existed or mattered just made Rachel more curious.

The heel of his boot clipped loud on the marble stair as he stepped down, and Ramge whipped around in surprise, large eyes wide. Immediately, Rachel felt every single instinct in his body kick into full defensive mode, feet planting his center of gravity firmly and hand reaching for a weapon. Those crimson eyes weren't staring at him with that vaporous gaze he associated with the timid Ramge. Rather, this kind of pinpoint intensity he had more commonly seen in battle, the lucid eyes of someone so zeroed in on their opponent that only death would stop them.

But just as quickly, that overwhelming focus scattered, leaving only an amorphous gaze that meandered over everything but Rachel.

It was only for a moment, but it was enough of a reminder that for all of Ramge’s lack of presence, he was still the son of King Shufraken, Tyrant of the North.

Lashes shuttered down, filtering eyes from view as Ramge dipped his head, the dark fringe of his hair shielding his face. “Y-your Highness.” He was still awkwardly formal, but it had only been a week. Someone like him probably needed months before thinking about going to a first-name basis.

Breathing out slowly, Rachel convinced his fight-and-kill instinct to dissipate, forcing a smile. He descended the remainder of the stairs. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Ah… no…” The other boy floundered, hands meandering with the rest of what he didn't say, before abruptly turning back to the cat and smoothing its fur.

Rachel stared at Ramge's back, weighing his options if he seized this opportunity. North von Frosty was infamously insular, their internal political landscape difficult to penetrate even by Wasted Red's superior intel bureau, but he had no doubt that Ramge personally held no meaningful power based on his disposition alone. For King Shufraken to send this nonentity instead of his favored heir had quite a few unfortunate implications, both to the longstanding custom of the King's Guard, the Emperor, and to Ramge himself.

Still, Rachel was sure Ramge had to have some uses. A sympathetic shoulder here, a friendly word there, and he could have a devoted, low maintenance puppy in the North. Alliances were key to building a base of power; even the most lowly commoner could be purposed. It was easy to isolate political opponents if no one supported them, and he was quite adept at getting people on his side. It shouldn't be hard to break down the meek Ramge and then leverage any of Ramge's connections within North von Frosty to build a network there.

Keeping up his smile, Rachel strolled up beside him, resting his arms on the wide marble top of the balustrade and tilting his head to catch a glimpse of the other prince's face.

"Who's your friend?" Rachel turned his smile on the cat, though he really had no affinity for animals. The creature must've sensed this, because its ears flattened, shrinking back against Ramge. If cats could talk, Rachel had a feeling this one would've been hissing at him to go away.

Slim arms protectively cradled the animal, which continued to glare at Rachel warily with prenaturally intelligent awareness. "S-sia," Ramge said so softly that Rachel had to lean in to hear better. Ramge automatically scooted away. "... her name... is Sia," he repeated, glancing at Rachel briefly before returning his attention to his pet.

"She's cute." Not really—something about the cat was a bit uncanny—but Ramge was obviously quite attached to it. There was even a dainty bow tied around its neck. Compliments didn't cost anything and pet owners loved compliments about their animals; Rachel dealt with enough aristocrats and their yappy dogs to know that the quickest way to gain the trust of a master was to lavish praise upon their pet.

"Yes…"

"Not much of a conversationalist, are you?" Rachel kept his tone light and his smile bright. Just patiently chipping away. Types like Ramge needed an even-tempered but firm hand; they were always drawn to dominant personalities to make up for their own shortcomings.

"N-no, I… sorry..." The cat put a paw on Ramge's cheek in an eerily human display of commiseration.

"But you sing pretty well." Time to lavish the praise, a little condolence after the criticism.

Ramge's lanky frame immediately shrank a few centimeters. "N-not… at all…" he said from somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulders.  
  
"What, you calling me a liar?" Rachel laughed.

"No…!" Rachel's eyes narrowed at Ramge's fervent denial; it appeared Ramge didn't like being misunderstood. He'd have to be careful not to misconstrue Ramge's words until the Northern prince learned to recognize friendly banter. "I-I mean…" Ramge's words faltered, half-syllables spilling out, before he visibly gave up trying to explain. "I... sh-should go."

Rachel offered him his most charming, soothing smile. "I'm just teasing you, don't worry about it. But I mean it—you do have a nice voice. Don't be so shy about it."

"Mmm…" Ramge didn't look reassured, but at least he didn't leave.

A warm breeze lifted their hair and Rachel turned his face into it, gazing past the palatial walls to the picturesque city of Khuntara below. Even from here he could make out the sunlight glittering on the high arcs of water from the center square's enormous, overwrought fountain.

"Nice view, huh?"

Ramge didn't respond for a long time, and Rachel figured maybe it was time to give up for today, when suddenly, "...it's different… from home…"

"I imagine," Rachel replied, pleased that Ramge continued their conversation. "Seems like it'd be pretty harsh that far up north."  
  
Ramge nodded slowly. "...I've… never seen so much bright green… and flowers… even the air smells strange…" He extended a hand over the railing and let the breeze play through his fingers. "... the hours pass differently too..."

"First time away from home?"

"Y-Yes…" Fingers snapped shut over a passing dandelion stalk, opening again to release it as he withdrew back to the safety of his personal bubble, turning away from the sights he had just complimented.  
  
"Homesick?" Rachel asked with a sympathetic air, fairly certain he knew the answer.

"... I miss the … familiarity..."  
  
"Hmmm," Rachel pretended to muse, rubbing his chin. "I've travelled a lot, and I've found the best way to deal with homesickness is to think of your trips as an adventure. Like spreading your wings."

(Not that he ever felt homesick, not with that kind of 'home,' but the rest of it was true.)

With a hop, Rachel pulled himself atop the balustrade, standing tall with his hands planted on his hips as he surveyed the land far below. The wind tugged at him; a slip here would guarantee a few broken bones in the best of circumstances. But the view was even better with nothing shielding the city from him; it was like he could take and crush it all in the palm of his hand. "If you don't look at things from a different perspective, you'll never get to experience anything new. You really want to be cooped up in a cage, chained by something like 'duty?' How dull."  
  
What little color Ramge had had drained from his face. "B-be careful…!"

Turning with a devil's grin, Rachel leaned over and held out a hand to Ramge. The cat in his arms hissed at the invitation. "Join me?"

Ramge quickly shook his head, clutching his cat close, like Rachel would somehow snatch them both up. "... are… are you always... r-reckless like this...?"

"So I'm told." But he sat down just so Ramge would stop looking like he was about to faint, legs dangling and kicking back against the spindle columns. "Hey, if you're feeling homesick, why don't we be friends? Maybe that'll help."

"F-friends?" The word was barely a whisper.

"Yeah, sure. Why not? We're the same age, right? And both the rookies in the Guard. We should stick together." His smile was shining like the sun behind him; it was well practiced and rarely failed. Ramge flinched from it, but beneath the shadow of his hair, his eyes were glued on Rachel. "You can't spend all your time here just singing to your cat."

"... I… suppose…?" When Rachel raised a brow at his half-hearted answer, Ramge straightened, lifting his chin. "I-I mean… yes, okay…"

It was really too bad, Rachel thought, that Ramge had so little value. His eyes were quite enchanting when the sunlight caught them.

**ii.**

"Well, aren't you the picture of restraint."  
  
"Hah?" Rachel glowered at the lithe form of Baraka, colorful silks fluttering as he smoothly parted through the crowd of courtiers to join Rachel.

Baraka's eyes curved into a sly smile. He lifted his wineglass, the deep violet liquid barely moving from the smooth movement, toying with the edge of it with his lips. "You look like a little cub ready to maul someone."

He ignored the baited insult (it just was how Baraka was), sweeping a hand around them. The great hall was dolled up to the nines, tastefully gaudy, appropriately flaunting wealth and power. So was everyone in it. "I hate parties."

The Prince of Wasted Red nodded in silent assent. "Unfortunately, they are part of the job description. May as well indulge in their hedonistic pleasures."

Rachel rolled his eyes, lip curling in distaste. "Not worth dealing with dancing, passive-aggressive microaggressions, or fucking the wrong person cause you drank too much."  
  
"Parties in Saint West sound quite exhilarating," Baraka chuckled. He thoughtfully tapped the stemware with a manicured nail. "Although there seems to be a disparity in your list."

"They're all equally terrible—don't argue with me." Rachel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had probably at least another two hours before he could gracefully make an exit without committing some breach in decorum; Lenombian nobility were such sticklers for it. "Something you needed?"

"Not at all. I've gotten my answer. Why haven't you left if this is all such a nuisance?"

"I've tried," Rachel groaned, dragging hands over his face in tortured despair. "Every time I made it to the exit, someone drags me back in and then I'm stuck playing nice for another half an hour." He held up a finger. "Rinse." He raised a second. "Repeat. First major banquet of the year, so everyone is looking to climb the social ladder, and who has better access to the Emperor than the King's Guard?"

Baraka snorted in amusement, green eyes flicking past Rachel. "Not to further dampen your evening, but it looks like we've been spotted." He motioned with his chin over Rachel's shoulder. "The Duke and Duchess of Berthington are headed this way and they appear quite eager."

"Two for one deal on the King's Guard," Rachel muttered. He eyed the wineglass twirling in Baraka's agile fingers. "Let me have that."

With a shrug, Baraka handed it over with a dry look. "Does drinking improve your disposition?"

"It's about to." And with that Rachel tipped the glass over. Wine hit the front of his pristine white coat, the purple splotch spreading quickly like a bloodstain. "Whoops," he said belatedly and with dull surprise. "How clumsy of me."

Baraka just raised a brow at him and Rachel just shrugged back, tossing back the remaining wine with one clean gulp and returning the stemware to Baraka with a flourish. "Looks like I'll have to go clean this up. Too bad I can't stay and chat. Extend my most sincere apologies to the Duke and Duchess."

"I give you about seven points for creativity," Baraka drawled, dark hair falling in his eyes as he tilted his head and raised the glass in salute, "but the acting is atrocious."

"I'll try harder on any repeat performances."

"I hope you'll be rewarding the scullery maids for the extra work."

Rachel waved behind him as he left in the opposite direction of the approaching aristocrats. "I'll leave that to you, Your Highness."

The 'accident' worked well in deterring any socialites from dragging him back to the party; there was nothing more tragic than a stain on fine clothing. It had to be treated immediately before such a unique textile was lost, so Rachel could only excuse himself from any conversation seekers as he beelined for the exit.

When he was finally free of the great hall and its peacocks, the tension in his shoulders immediately dispersed and he sighed in relief. It was a lot of work keeping up appearances. He ruefully regarded his ruined coat; he had liked this one, but its sacrifice would not be forgotten.

Despite escaping the party, Rachel was still too wound up to retire for the evening; he let his feet take him through the quiet corridors of the palace, the only sounds the staccato tap of his heels on marble floors and the babble of waterfalls falling from fountains. It was pleasantly peaceful after the constant cacophony of buzzing conversation and ambient orchestra.

The promenade he found himself upon passed alongside a meticulously maintained small garden, and Rachel glanced past it into the night, where a pale moon was rising. Around the garden were tall lamp posts lit with torches, casting a romantic glow over hedges, night-blooming flowers, and angelic statuary, perfect for an illicit late night rendezvous.

Often tied to superstition, cats weren't a common sight on palace grounds—though no doubt there were a few kept for catching vermin in the pantry—so when Rachel spotted a sinuous, inky tail disappearing into a hedge, he had a good suspicion on who the cat belonged to.

Ramge should've known better than to let the cat out unsupervised; small animals were tempting targets for cruel squires and bored nobles alike—cats doubly so due to their skittish nature and association with the darker parts of folklore. If something happened to that cat…

The image of Ramge's puffy, tear-streaked face and Rachel's subsequent duty of having to comfort him made the Southern prince sigh and step onto the lawn. It had been a number of weeks already and they were something like friends or whatever now, but he really didn't want to deal with any of that. He was sure Ramge would be one of those bawling, clingy type of criers. (Not that he's actually ever seen Ramge cry, but it seemed to fit his personality.)

Crouching down, Rachel peered into the shadows of the hedge where he had seen the tail disappear into. "Here, kitty…"

A claw swiped out, grazing the air before his nose, and he jerked back, falling unceremoniously onto his ass. Yellow eyes stared at him threateningly behind a screen of foliage; a soft growl rose from within.

Touching his nose and finding it unscathed, he stared back, affronted. He had no idea pet cats could growl, and the low, rumbling noise sounded more at home on a larger beast than this tiny feline. But seriously, this was uncalled for—he was just trying to help. Childishly, he growled back and the gold eyes disappeared deeper into the rustling bushes.

With a curse, he dropped onto his hands and knees, grass staining the white and gold brocade of his trousers green as he crawled halfway into the hedge. Brushing away thick leaves, he groped blindly for the feline in the shadows. "Look here, furball—"

"R-rachel?"

Startled, Rachel backpedalled out, twigs snagging his hair and scratching his face. Swearing colorfully, he swatted at the foliage, snapping off the stems, emerging the clear loser in the war with the greenery.

"Are… are you all right...?" Ramge was staring down at him in disbelief and concern, a small plate arranged meticulously with food held tightly between two hands.

At least Rachel's bruised pride wasn't witnessed by someone prone to gossip. He smiled wryly, spreading his hands wide to draw attention to his disheveled, dirty appearance. "Never better."

"I see…" Ramge's face said he didn't see at all.

Rachel jerked a thumb at the hedge, trying to reclaim his dignity. "I saw your cat in there—"

"Oh!" Tucking the tails of his fancy overcoat behind his knees, Ramge carefully crouched down in front of the hedge and set down the plate, Rachel's misadventures completely forgotten. "Sia, I brought what you asked."

 _Asked_? Rachel sat back, shaking greenery from his hair. He frowned at a stubborn stick dangling from a forelock, golden strands braided around it.

The black cat emerged from the shadow of the dense hedges, tail upright and smiling in the way only cats can. She daintily placed two paws on Ramge's knee and lifted up to briefly touch noses with him. After sparing a moment to level a warning glare on Rachel, she pounced on the food with gusto.

Rachel recognized a number of the delicacies on the dish. "You brought food from the banquet for your cat?" It shouldn't have been a surprise; Ramge treated his cat like a person, to the point of even asking her questions like she would answer.

"Yes…? I… usually bring what she asks... since she can't come with me..."

Rachel focused on prying his curls free from the twig so he wouldn't be caught rolling his eyes.

The other prince peered at him anxiously. "Did… you need help with that…?"

He paused in his fussing. "Yeah, actually." Lowering his head, he pointed at the stick. "I think it's stuck."

"Ah…" Ramge remained still for a bit too long and Rachel got the distinct feeling that he didn't expect his offer of help to be accepted. Then fingers began carefully working at the snarl. "... what were you doing …?"

"I told you—I saw your cat down there," Rachel huffed. "I didn't think it was a good idea for her to wander around unsupervised." He craned his neck to regard Ramge from the corner of his eye. "Not everyone here knows she's your cat, after all."

"Oh… I didn't think of that..." The worried line of Ramge's mouth smoothed. "Thank you."

Rachel waved away the gratitude. "I don't think she likes me very much though."  
  
"... she... doesn't trust you..."

"Yeah, I heard cats aren't very friendly."  
  
Ramge hesitated. "Yes… something like that. B-but she's very loving… once she accepts you..." Picking away the last strands of hair from the twig, he held it out for Rachel to see. "... all done."

Taking the stick, Rachel tossed it behind him. "Surprised you didn't escape the party sooner."  
  
"E-escape? N-no, I don't… mind it… I'm just delivering Sia's meal."

"Huh, I didn't think you'd like that kind of social setting. All that mingling and talking." Rachel shuddered, shaking his head. "I can't stand it."  
  
"Oh…" Ramge fiddled with his sleeve cuffs. "Uh… no one really... pays me any mind..."

He wasn't wrong about that—Rachel hadn't noticed he was there either. But then, all of Rachel's attention was on finding a good excuse to skip out without offending the Emperor (or even worse, Captain Rudley).

"... but I like... dancing… so it's not bad...? I think."  
  
"Dancing?" Rachel's brows shot into his hairline. That was the last thing he expected Ramge to enjoy. 

Even in the torchlit night, he could make out the flush on Ramge's cheeks. "Is… is that strange…?" he murmured.

Rachel scratched a dirty cheek. "More like unexpected…?" Or unimaginable, but he wasn't going to say that aloud.

"Ah." Acutely self-conscious, Ramge plucked at the blades of grass between his feet. "It's… You… you each have your roles... And there's nothing to distract you... from the other person. It's… one of the few times I'm seen..." he trailed off, shredding the lawn with renewed, nervous vigor.

What kind of life had Ramge been living up there in the frozen wastes? Rachel didn't know what to say. He thought he had Ramge figured out—had gathered from context that Ramge was isolated, but had assumed this was self-imposed, since Ramge rarely engaged in socialization unless pressed. Rachel carried most of the conversation between them since Ramge never was interested in maintaining his half, mumbling in short sentences when he spoke at all. Rachel would've guessed someone so attention starved would've sought it, not be disinterested in it.

"You like what you like," he finally replied with a shrug. "Who cares what anyone thinks or the reason why." He spread his hands. "I love sweets and no one expects that out of me."

"... yes... I noticed…"

"That obvious?" Rachel grinned.

"You... get aggressive over the dessert tray…" Ramge's mood was lighter now. He abandoned his assault on the grass to rub Sia's silky ears, eliciting a burst of purring even as she scarfed her food.  
  
"When I'm crowned, that course will get served first at every meal," Rachel said airily. "It'll be a royal decree." He jumped to his feet, dusting off the seat of his trousers.

Ramge stood too out of courtesy, patting out wrinkles in his coattails. He still maintained a formal decorum, even with those typically considered his social equals. At least Rachel convinced him to drop the 'Your Highness' and 'Lord Rachel' business along with the deferential language. "H-heading back?"

"Looking like this?" Rachel plucked at the front of his lapel, the stain nearly black in the dim light.  
  
"R-right…" Ramge rubbed an upper arm sheepishly.

"Don't let your cat wander around unsupervised, okay?" Rachel reminded him sternly.

"Y-ye—I mean, okay… I'll talk to her... She just got a bit excited."

Rachel indulgently ruffled Ramge's hair like he was a little kid. Some pet owners just treated their animals as another human being. But it was kind of cute in a pathetic way when Ramge did it.

**iii.**

Rachel paused, hefting the bundle of practice weapons more securely onto his shoulder. A somber figure was slumped over on one of the benches outside the practice arena, dark head practically between skinny knees, shoulders heaving. A black cat was mewling in concern, pawing at a leg.

He couldn't help but smirk to himself—it was an amusingly pathetic picture, but endearing in a way that only the miserable could be. With another hitch of the weapons to steady their heavy load, he crossed the open field. Ramge didn't even look up when his shadow fell over him. But the cat hissed at Rachel and when he silently hissed back, she darted behind Ramge's feet, eyes peeking out warily.

Rachel listened to Ramge's laboured breathing before cocking his head to the side. "You gonna make it?"

Ramge just nodded, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair to splatter on the ground. He sounded like he was dying.

"You sure?" Rachel dropped the weapons on the end of the bench and swung down beside his friend (whatever), stretching out his sore legs and rolling his ankles. It wasn't like he had it easy today either; Baraka poked at Captain Rudley as he was wont, so extra laps were added to the usual daily regimen. The castle grounds were ridiculously vast; at this point Rachel had become intimately familiar with them. He could run them in his sleep. "What were you even doing?"

"En…. endurance… tr… training…" This time Ramge's stilted words were due to his gasps for air than his shyness.

"Sounds rough."  
  
Ramge nodded again. "La… Lady Bathory said if I worked…. worked on that I'd… i-improve…" He swallowed, wheezing.

Rachel watched thoughtfully as the other prince slowly, painfully straightened like an arthritic old man first getting out of bed. His skin was flushed an angry pink from exertion and exposure to the summer sun. Dirt and sweat stained his blouse; blood blisters were forming on exposed palms. He was going to feel a lot worse in the morning—Rachel knew this from experience.

'Improve?' Why did Ramge want to improve his combat skills enough to push himself like this?

Suddenly it wasn't quite as amusing watching Ramge try not to wilt from working so hard.

Shifting, Rachel cleared his throat, toeing at the ground with a boot. "You're done for the day, right?" He stood, lifting the practice weapons with a grunt. "I'll get you something to drink."

"Ah… n-no, it's—"

"I'll be back," Rachel cut off any protest, balancing the bundle on his shoulders as he headed off.

After dropping off the gear in the armory (as the youngest, he got saddled with cleanup), the kitchens were his next stop. He could've gotten a servant to bring Ramge the refreshments, but he was deeply curious why Ramge wanted to get better at fighting, when he appeared to have no interest in conflict at all.

Ramge was still there on the bench, Sia now in his lap, when Rachel returned with a tray topped with two glass mugs and a crystal decanter of fresh water. The faint sound of humming reached Rachel's ears, but it stopped when Ramge spotted him. Although the Northern prince looked utterly exhausted, the previous flushed, overheated color of his face had resumed their typical pallor.

Well, except on his nose and the planes of his high cheekbones. "I think your skin burned a little again," Rachel said, plopping down unceremoniously, the glasses on the platter shifting with a loud clink. Setting it down beside him, he poured water into a mug and handed it over.

Wrapping hands carefully around the glass, Ramge murmured a sound of agreement and drank gratefully. He poured the remaining water into a cupped palm and let Sia do the same.

Rachel served himself, but hardly put the glass to his lips before he blurted out, "Why are you trying so hard?"

Ramge jumped at the sudden question, water sloshing from his fingers. Sia lept back from the droplets of water with an offended hiss, tail fluffed, and Ramge reached out to her in apology. She nosed him in forgiveness, but glared at Rachel balefully, like he surprised them intentionally. He made a face at her in return. With a toss of her head, she turned her back to him, aggressively grooming herself, and Rachel smirked faintly over his win.

Oblivious to the exchange, Ramge shook the remaining droplets of water off his hand. "Wh-what do… you mean...?"

"'What do I mean?' Well…" Rachel took a sip of water, forming his thoughts, and then gestured vaguely with his glass. "Let's be real. You could just slack around like Xiakhan and no one would care. Everyone knows the King's Guard is just ceremonial. None of us are gonna give up our lives for the Emperor. That's what the Royal Guard is for."

"...then…" Ramge hesitated, glancing at Rachel from beneath shuttered lashes. "Why... do you try so hard?"

"Hah?" Rachel raised a brow at what had all the signs of a stupid question.

"You… show up every day... and do everything asked of you… If it's all meaningless... then why... do you try...?"

"I like fighting," Rachel said, with all the confidence of an immutable fact. "And I want to get stronger."

"... I need to… also… "

"But what do you _want_ , Ramge?"

Ramge blinked, brows furrowed in confusion. "W-want?"

"Yeah. Not what you do you need, but what do you want?" Rachel set down his mug with a loud clatter, sweeping his arm to encompass the palace grounds. "Out of coming here, to Lenombe? You wouldn't be trying so hard, 'needing' to get stronger, if you didn't want to get something stronger _for_."

"I-I don't have…" Ramge trailed off, lost. "...What... do you want… to...?"

"Me?" Rachel's grin was a little off kilter, a slash of white teeth in a fair face. "I want to burn it all down."

Ramge blinked again, taken aback.  
  
Rachel laughed at his appalled expression, waving a dismissing hand. "I'm kidding. You really aren't good at picking up on jokes, are you?"

"...no…" But the slight, uncertain way Ramge spoke revealed he was not convinced that Rachel had been joking.

"Look, I'm just saying, strength is meant to be used." Rachel raised up a hand to the sky, grabbing the white disc of the afternoon sun in his fist. "You don't forge a sword just to stick it on your wall, just like you don't gain strength just to put it on a pedestal. You get strength to wield it. You _want_ to wield it. And not just wield it, but wield it for a purpose."

".. my father…" Ramge whispered, "thinks like that…"  
  
Lowering his arm, Rachel leaned back, lifting his chin proudly to the sun. "That's how _kings_ think."

Ramge was silent, twisting the mug around in his blistered hands, staring into its empty bottom.

**iv.**

Breaths bubbled thick in his chest, exhaled only with a conscious will of effort through viscous fluid he surmised was his own clotting blood. He choked on it, coughed, tried again. The rattling whistle of his breath was louder than his heartbeat, reverbing in his ears, like a coin in a tin can.

The overcast sky was flat, two-dimensional. He could only see out of one eye, the other glued shut from blood and injury. Lifting an arm almost lazily, he dragged broken fingers across his face, loosening black crust from his eyelid using fresh blood and chipped nails. A carrion feeder circled overhead, its harsh cry as surreal and flat as the grey clouds. He blinked, eyeballs rolling around. He lay on a ruin of dead.

Any pain he should've felt was absent; or maybe it was just an afterthought, unimportant in the grand scheme of things as his lungs filled blood and he struggled to breathe.

Death on the battlefield was not an unexpected end, but it felt too soon. There was still so much to accomplish, more people to punish, more lives to burn. His anger still thirsted, still screamed for release. He laughed at this twist in his fate, coughed, laughed some more. Something in him punctured something else inside him at the movement. He didn't feel a thing.

He closed his eyes, but the engulfing darkness made him think of a death shroud, falling over him in his last moments, and he wasn't ready for that, not yet. Panicking, he gasped desperately for some air and instead drowned on his own vitality.

A cool palm touched his feverish forehead, a soft voice murmured sounds of comfort.

When the episode passed, he was staring into nebulous crimson eyes. He struggled to speak through crusted lips as Ramge (or the reaper wearing his face) brushed matted hair from his cheeks with gentle fingers. Without the sun, Ramge's eyes were the color of old, infected blood.

"What—" Rachel paused, sucking in air wetly, continued in a low whisper, "—are you doing here...?"

Ramge didn't answer, expression serene despite his friend painted red by his side. It was so out of character that Rachel knew this had to be a hallucination, and he was fine with that, because dying before the real thing would be too troublesome.

It was pretty funny how well his imagination captured the likeness, and that this is who his brain conjured up to comfort him in his dying moments, and not his mother or… or anyone else, really, but maybe it was because he had been spending so much time with Ramge lately... it was all just pretty funny… His life had been one big comedy and this was the final joke.

His breath whistled, spilling more life. "... sing for me..."

Ramge obliged.

But as his thoughts detached and fell away, Rachel realized he couldn't hear anything at all.

When he awoke, it was to the softness of candlelight in the gloom. A canopy of damask blurred, focused, blurred again, like the kaleidoscopes he enjoyed when he was young. He couldn’t feel anything, wasn’t sure he was anything but a pair of eyes staring at a tacky pattern.

Gradually his other senses stirred: the damp texture of a cool towel upon his forehead, the dry leaden taste in his mouth, the scent of clean linen enveloping him, the soft wordless humming (of an elegy disguised as a nursery rhyme) at his side.

Rachel’s bleary gaze slid toward the sound; his neck managed to follow suit with a silent pop. Hell sure did resemble his quarters in Lenombe’s palace. He even had the devil's son for company.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was rusty and he coughed. (No blood this time.)

The humming cut off mid-note as Ramge bolted upright in the chair pulled up beside the bed. He quickly set aside the book he had been reading and leaned forward, Sia stirring once in her nest on his lap, ears twitching. “Y-you’ve been ill… I was watching over you.”  
  
Rachel turned back to the damask canopy, taking a moment to parse the information. A dull echo still throbbed (where he dreamt he had been wounded) in his chest, but it was nothing more than the residuals of pneumonia. Finally he sighed, pressing his palms to his eyes. “Idiot," he rasped. "What if you get sick too?”

“Mmm,” was the noncommittal reply. Not too long ago, Rachel had finally understood what that wordless murmur meant, so he didn't argue. He had a reputation for recklessness, but he suspected that once Ramge got an idea into his head, he would disregard his own life to accomplish it.

(They were quite alike in that aspect.)

A soft rustle of fabric and the trickle of falling water drew his attention, sudden thirst hitting him.

Pulling the washcloth off his forehead, he raised up onto his elbows with a groan. Feeling was returning to his limbs, stiff and sore. “How long was I out of it?” Violent dreams fueled by delirium were now just a haze parting to unveil past memories; he recalled chills, coughs, and little after.

Ramge carefully helped him sit up before handing him the cup of water. “A week. … maybe more...?" His sharp, tired features twisted in apology. "I-I don't know exactly."

Rachel drained the glass in one pull, wiping still-parched lips with the back of his hand, stifling a cough. He frowned at the dark smudges under Ramge's eyes, the pallid cast to his complexion. "You've been here the whole time?"

"Yes..." Ramge relieved him of the cup, avoiding his disapproving look.

Unbidden, the image of that specter (wearing Ramge's skin) witnessing his dying breath flickered like a premonition and Rachel passed a hand over his eyes.  
  
"A-are you all right?" Fingers brushed against his arm. "I… I should go fetch the physician…"

"Yeah, do that." Between his mounting headache and the dull ache in his chest, laudanum sounded like just what he needed.

Gathering up his sleepy cat, Ramge stood, but Rachel grasped his elbow weakly. "Hey."  
  
"Y-yes?"

He didn't want to look at that weary face, so he settled for some spot past Ramge's shoulder. "Thanks. But next time, you don't need to take care of me. We have servants for a reason."

"I-I know…" Ramge extracted himself carefully from Rachel's grasp, mindful of Sia. "I… wanted to."

**v.**

"Dance with me."  
  
Crouched over Sia and her delivered feast, Ramge stared up at him in confusion. Even the cat had stopped mid-bite to level an equally bewildered expression at him, mouth flopping open as if to say 'what?'

Well, it was a rather strange greeting; most people settled for 'hello.'  
  
Unfazed, Rachel's crooked grin widened, wiggling his outstretched hand invitingly. "Come on."  
  
"... H-here?"  
  
"Why not?"

"...uh…" Ramge glanced around the night-shrouded promenade which skirted the gardens of the upper bailey. The area was deserted sans the omnipresent guards; anyone of note was at the party in the great hall. Even the moon had already settled for the evening, leaving the stars to shine bright. "There's no music..."  
  
Rachel cocked his head; he could hear a ghost of the orchestra floating from the domed great hall under the sounds of the cool evening, but it was far too faint for a proper accompaniment to a waltz. "Who needs music?" He shrugged. "The moves are the same regardless. I'll lead you."

"Okay...?" Face still shadowed with misgivings, Ramge slipped a hand into Rachel's and let him pull him to his feet. "No spilled wine tonight?" From anyone else it would've been a snide remark; from Ramge, it was just a question.

Walking backwards, Rachel led him off the paved walk into the grass. "Baraka covered for me. Said he felt sorry for the maids." His grin tilted derisively. "But I owe him now. Who knows what twisted things he has planned to stain my innocence."  
  
"I see..." Jokes tended to fall flat with Ramge. Instead, he glanced behind him at Sia for guidance, narrowly running into Rachel when the other abruptly stopped. "S-sorry…!" Ramge stepped back, almost tripping in his haste.

Rachel just smirked, lifting their clasped hands up and out while pressing his other palm to Ramge's back. "Why are you being so shy? I thought you liked dancing."

"Yes, I do…" Gingerly, Ramge rested a hand on Rachel's shoulder, as if expecting to be burned.  
  
"But not with me?" It was hard to resist teasing Ramge when he was being so skittish with him.  
  
"N-no!" Ramge flushed at how vehemently he denied it. "I... just didn't think you liked it."  
  
"I don't," Rachel declared with a toss of his curls. "Absolutely despise it."  
  
"Wh…? ...then why…?"

Tilting his head thoughtfully, he drummed fingers along Ramge's back. "I guess you could say I was a bit envious?" Watching Ramge pass from person to person, his face lost in the fantasy of being the focus of someone's attention, had almost everything to do with why Rachel left the party when he saw Ramge slip out with the plate of food. Skipping out on a hated event was, in that moment, secondary.

Dark brows knitted together. "What do you—"

"Forget it. You ready?" Rachel ignored Ramge's stuttered 'wait!,' stepping forward. "One, two—"

It was awkward without music, similar to lessons Rachel was forced to take as a child, shuffling his feet to a prim instructor's barks of 'one, two.' He had hated those lessons and that stuffy room, all part of the required etiquette training of a prince. He only ever enjoyed dancing with certain people, but that was all just dirt littering his childhood now. He couldn't remember the last time he danced for pleasure, so all that remained was the distaste. At least this time he had a partner instead of embracing air and wouldn't get a hard smack to the elbow with a switch whenever he let his shoulders relax and arms droop.

At least this time it was Ramge with him and not Ramge with someone else.

Still, he really shouldn't have followed his first impulse, because it was awkward without music and Ramge must've felt the same; he stumbled back on the first step, saved only by Rachel's hand on his back, and was slow to catch up by the second and third. Without a guiding beat, they remained out of sync for several boxes. Rachel couldn't help but laugh at that because didn't this just sum up how it was between them? Rachel leading, Ramge following, both completely and utterly mismatched.

Ramge's fingers dug into Rachel's shoulder at the laughter, his brows drawn down even further, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Rachel shook his head, still chuckling, unsure of how to explain what was so funny.

But as Ramge gave up trying to pair their steps, ever-lowering head shadowing his face from view, Rachel halted their little charade.

"Hey," he began, just as awkward as their waltz, "I wasn't laughing at you. Just that you're right—it's strange without music."  
  
"Mmm…" Ramge continued to study their boots.

With a sigh, Rachel released the other prince and held up his hands in surrender. "I'll let you get back to the party. Didn't mean to get you down."

Lifting his face, Ramge stared at the hands hovering before him for a long moment, then lightly pressed the palm of his right hand to Rachel's left. "... let's… try again."

"You sure?" Rachel asked, surprised. "You didn't look like you were enjoying yourself."

"That's because you—" Ramge's lips pinched shut, swallowing his complaint and bowing his head once more.

He missed the blond's brief smirk. "First time I've ever seen you irritated." Rachel's fingers curled around Ramge's hand, lifting it.  
  
"...I'm... not..."

Rachel eyed the tense slope of Ramge's shoulders and snorted. "Are too." He slapped a palm into position onto the other prince's back and Ramge jolted upright. "It's all right though. You can be irritated with me." He leaned in to look Ramge full in the face. Startled, Ramge reclined as far back as his height would allow, forcing Rachel to stare up at him. "Or sad. Or angry. Or even happy. You can feel whatever you want when you're with me."

Music floated from somewhere faraway.

"... o-okay," whispered Ramge.

Rachel straightened. "Good." 

It was still awkward without melodial accompaniment the second time, but at least now they were in sync. After a few boxes, it became apparent that Ramge was more than a capable dancer, even as the follow for an average lead. He was graceful and responsive, brimming with poise so unusual for someone so self-effacing.

"You're pretty good at this," Rachel said, feeling a bit humbled. He never fancied himself a brilliant dancer considering how much he hated it, but he wasn't incompetent by any measure, managing well enough to charm his way through the ballroom when forced to attend. Ramge blew him—and any partners he had ever danced with—out of the water.

Rachel expected him to deny it, but instead the compliment morphed his morose facade into something sweet and glowing. Rachel realized he was privy to something few people—if anyone—ever got to witness and it knocked any further words out of him.

That nebulous red gaze settled on him, and Rachel's mouth went dry, reminded of the way they glittered in sunlight. "... thank you…" 

('You can feel whatever you want when you're with me.')

Rachel cleared his throat. "Right." Ramge was still staring at him, so he made a big show of looking around the empty lawn. "Too bad there's no music, huh?"

The humming started low, a faint tracing of the ghostly orchestra drifting from the great hall, so faint that Rachel wasn't sure he was hearing it at all. As it gradually grew in volume, he realized the source was Ramge and he glanced at him in wonder. The Northern prince's eyes had slipped closed, his face in a content repose that Rachel had never seen before, and when he had been so quick to look away before, he couldn't look away now.

Ramge always gave the impression of timid fragility, a mouse of a prince playing in the pen with lions. Even the most weak-minded nobles had merit—they could be used as pawns by those with ambition—and a discarded prince would still have some value in the great political game. So Rachel had been surprised to learn that Ramge had no support amongst the aristocracy of North von Frosty—no one wanted him, not even as a pawn. He was worthless in the most absolute sense of the word.

But it wasn't due to his personality, as Ramge liked to so adamantly claim. Or rather, it was due specifically to an aspect of his personality that wasn't immediately apparent, an aspect that Rachel only saw through months of close association with him. That beneath the glass exterior was a mind of steel, intelligent, freethinking, and stubborn, unable to be manipulated except by someone with a will more extraordinary than his.

Once he realized this, Rachel had been sure that Ramge's feeble nature was an act. It was the only way to reconcile such an implacable mind with such a meek person. And sometimes he still believed this, because there were too many facets to Ramge that he only caught glimpses of, too many hidden ones he could only suspect, and all of them contradictions.

Despite his instincts, Rachel trusted him—trusted in the inexplicable friendship that blossomed between them, where maybe they were using each other for personal gain, or maybe just relying on each other as they navigated the cruelties of their world.

And he believed Ramge trusted him too; trusted him enough to find solace in this moment, sharp features delicate and lovely in the torchlight as he echoed the orchestra with a soft voice.

A watercolor memory of a sweet spring day, where a boy had been serenading a cat, arose and Rachel smiled faintly, trying to grasp it before the colors washed away.

Ramge opened his eyes to that sincere smile, but he was not watching Rachel in his usual vague, transient manner. Instead, it was with the intensity of someone determined to stare forever into the sun because they didn't want to look away.

**vi.**

Ramge had been coined 'Rachel's shadow' by the gossip mill, and they certainly were inseparable as such these days; Rachel, golden bright, leading the way, with Ramge, a somber midnight, always trailing behind. People quickly learned not to mention this or any of the other unflattering monikers (his pet, his toy, his bitch) in Rachel's presence lest they face the sharp side of his temper, but if the names bothered Ramge, he never admitted it.

When there was nothing pressing to attend to, evenings were often spent lounging in Rachel's chambers with drinks and whatever sweet dainties caught his attention for the day. Rachel never invited and Ramge never asked—it was just some unspoken arrangement they had fallen into. In fact, it had become so routine that the sight of Ramge entering and exiting Rachel's quarters during all manner of hours was commonplace—and indeed fed fuel to the more salacious rumors. Ramge's esteem among the common aristocracy was not improved by this association.

However, inside Rachel's room, there was no judgment of outsiders. Not even servants were allowed within when it was the three of them (Sia as much as Ramge's shadow as Ramge was Rachel's) and they passed the time as if there was no outside world. Rachel tended the hearth to Ramge's liking (not too warm but enough flame to hypnotize both cat and master alike during quiet moments) and Ramge poured the tea to Rachel's taste (enough sugar to disguise the fact that "this is just dried leaves in boiling water and it's disgusting").

They played card or board games with inconsequential wagers. Ramge was the superior player in many of them, but was cursed by bad luck in any with chance elements, which were among those counted as Rachel's favorites to play. As such, Ramge lost more often than not, but Rachel was magnanimous in his winning requests—most of the time.

Other nights, Rachel would help him train. They'd move aside the furnishings to further open space in Rachel's already vast quarters, and even though Rachel had no magical background, he'd assist with physical practicalities, such as self-defense if an opponent came too close to be countered with a spell. The dumbfounded expression Rachel wore the first time Ramge flipped him onto his back was worth the effort Ramge put into practicing when he was alone.

But mostly they talked. Rachel never knew he had so much to talk about; he was good at conversation and social cues—diplomacy was a de facto skill for a prince and as impulsive as Rachel could get, he knew when to apply it—but he never really just… talked. Inane observations. Melodramatic complaints. Philosophical musings. And a lot of arguing with Sia, when she finally trusted him enough to start speaking to him. (Rachel was in no way jealous of a cat; their passive-aggressive sniping was just because they didn't get along, that's all, and had absolutely nothing to do with Ramge.) 

If Rachel had a lot to say, then Ramge had a lot of opinions on them. He had subtle ways of making them known and at times Rachel would belatedly realize that he lost a disagreement he hadn't been aware they were having. It wasn't as if they were changed people—Rachel was still a liar and Ramge a coward—but in here, their haven, Ramge was more inclined to speak his mind and Rachel more inclined to speak his heart.

When the nights wore long, Ramge would fall asleep, pillowed among the soft cushions of the garishly patterned settee before the fireplace, and Rachel would carry him to his bed before burying himself in the residuals of Ramge's scent and heat amongst the cushions. Other times, Rachel would be the first to doze off, especially after a gruelling day of Captain Rudley's drills, and he'd awake in the morning alone, but arranged more comfortably on the settee, with blankets pulled from his bed tucked around him.

It was their routine. There were no politics, no rank, no intrigue. Whatever secrets they each had locked inside didn't matter.

One night, during a long, comfortable lull in conversation, Ramge suddenly turned to him. Rachel blinked owlishly, pulled from drowsing musings about faded nothings, silver days, and crimson eyes. Burrowed deep in the settee, he had almost fallen asleep, Ramge's warmth radiating against his side blanketing him. A fuzzy, questioning peep escaped him.

"You also know that song?" Ramge asked.  
  
Rachel blinked again. "Hah?"

The surety lining Ramge's shoulders collapsed as he doubted what he had heard. "I-I thought you were humming it…"  
  
 _Oh_. 'That' song, the children's rhyme. Rubbing his jaw, Rachel shrugged, annoyed with himself. He hadn't realized he had been singing it—the version of it from a bloodied childhood—lost in his thoughts. Hadn't realized he had been singing it while thinking of pleasant things. "Was I?"

"Sia heard it too," Sia piped up from her home on Ramge's lap.

"Is that so." It wasn't a question. Picking at the fabric on the armrest, Rachel slid down further along the settee's back until he was barely upright. "It's a common tune, isn't it? Just got stuck in my head, that's all."

"Master Ramge's a better singer," Sia said even as Ramge tried to shush her.

"I bet." Rachel smiled at the pink fluster staining Ramge's high cheekbones; by the time he realized what he was doing, it was too late to take it back.

"...Do you like to sing?" Ramge asked and Rachel wished he'd drop the matter.

"Not one bit." He punctuated each word with a wave of a finger. "And be grateful for that—I'm bad at it."  
  
"You didn't sound terrible…"  
  
"When I was a kid, they used to stand me up in front of the basilica. Songs from the little angel and all that." He smirked. "Then I grew up and my voice grew with me. It's not so pretty now. Forget about it."

"Oh…" Red peeked at him from beneath sooty lashes, and he wondered where Ramge picked up such a coy gesture that made his breath catch. "I'm still curious what you sound like."

Rachel snorted. "Like Sia when it's time for her second dinner."

"Excuse you," the cat cut in primly, sitting up now with her tail coiled about her paws, the very picture of an affronted royal feline. "Sia is very proper."

"That's one way to put it." He clasped his hands under his chin, blue eyes soulful. "'Master Ramge, feed me nyaaaooow.'" Rachel drawled out the last syllable, pitching it high.

Sia launched herself at him, paw smooshing his nose. "Sia doesnyat sound like that!" She stood on his chest, tail lashing, staring down at him and daring him to argue.

"Yes, Rachel…" Ramge said, lifting his cat back into his lap. "Sia doesn't sound like that."

"Well, you love her so of course she doesn't sound like that to you." Rachel rubbed his nose in mock hurt; they had moved past the stage of clawed cat punches a long time ago but it never hurt to play it up for pity points. "Trust me, to anyone else in the vicinity, it's torture to the ears. You'd think she was being starved to death."  
  
"Mmm…" Ramge smoothed the fur on Sia's cheeks and she begrudgingly settled down like a furry loaf, paws tucked under her. "I'd still like to hear you sing that song. Just... a little." His solemn face softened, radiating. "...I'm sure it won't be torture to my ears."

Rachel stared, heart fluttering like a bird trying to escape a cage. He had been trying to ignore the signs for a while now, had been trying his absolute damnedest. He was a handsome, rich, powerful prince, so he's had his fair share of admirers—and even indulged in a few trysts when it suited his needs. Therefore he wasn't ignorant when it came to recognizing infatuation; after all, cultivating affection was a useful tool in getting what he wanted, especially if the person was so starved for affection back.

A year ago he would've been elated. He had approached Ramge for the purpose of using and discarding him as needed, plying up congeniality to create a rapport between them. That was just how alliances were among the nobility. There was no real sincerity in any of it.  
  
Now Rachel just wanted to ignore the naked look in Ramge's eyes because it was getting increasingly difficult to decipher what complicated thing their relationship was becoming. And he had been trying, but damn did Ramge make it almost impossible.

With an inaudible sigh, he flopped sideways to rest his head on the settee's arm, away from Ramge and that gentle expression he had been affecting almost constantly these days. Rachel knew he'd have a harder time saying no directly to it. "Bit unfair that you get to hear me sing but I can't hear you," he protested, a bit weakly. He picked at a thread of embroidery on the armrest and pulled viciously at it, taking out his frustration on the innocent furniture.

"I like... listening to you," Ramge said quietly. "And I like singing. And I like that song. So I thought…" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. You're right."  
  
Rachel tried. And it started off fine, if a bit rough, a bit faded, memories bleached by the sun so they were vague and impersonal, but still clean and warm. Innocent and sweet like a nursery rhyme.

But it was fleeting and the sunlight was nothing more than the glint of a knife and the brightness stained red and the warmth was fluid and—and it had become his battle hymn, driving his march on the path of destruction, bearing all of his rage and hate, a symbol of just everything wrong in this world that he would rechristen with blood—

He cut off mid-song. Laughed a little to cover up the choking noise that escaped him. "I think singing's your forte, not mine. That was awful."

"...It made me happy just the same." Ramge's soft voice was more muted than usual. "Thank you."

After a long moment, Rachel sat up, scrubbing hands through his unruly hair. "It's getting late."

"Rachel..." Ramge laid a light hand on his arm. Rachel's eyes warily followed the line of his limb up to his grave face. "You're a good person."  
  
A beat. His heart was pounding but it was a reaction to danger. "Hah?" he managed to scoff out. He moved to stand but Ramge's fingers tightened in his sleeve, anchoring him. "What are you going on about?" He tried to sound dismissive, unconcerned, but the atmosphere in the room was thick.

“You… probably wouldn't know but... when no one cares about you, you become invisible, like a fixture or a piece of trash." Ramge released him to drift fingers over Sia's fur, watching the fire in the hearth dance. "Their eyes pass over you and note you’re there... but they don't process it. You’re someone else’s problem and they just want you to go away... so they ignore you. And if there’s no one left to claim that problem, then you just remain invisible."

It was the most Ramge had ever spoken at once. And as Rachel studied the sad curve of Ramge's lips and melancholy bend of his neck, it hit him that this was the most Ramge had ever opened his heart. Something in Rachel twisted; he recognized it as fear.

"But... when you're invisible," Ramge continued, raising his eyes to meet Rachel's, "people reveal themselves in ways... they wouldn't to people they care about. You see everything because no one realizes you're there. The cracks in their walls... the tears in their masks… every bit of ugliness in their souls.

"Your singing is very beautiful, Rachel." Ramge wasn't referring to the technique or voice or anything about singing at all and now, more than anything, Rachel wanted to break this complicated thing between them, to find comfort in its destruction. Every fighting instinct in him was screaming. He was vulnerable—had been vulnerable for a long time and he didn't know (no, he knew but ignored it, like how he ignored Ramge's affections). Ramge was a threat. The mouse had cornered the lion and Rachel was at an impasse.

There were a million ways he could break this. He was good at breaking things—it was what he did best. He had his fun but he lingered too long, gotten too comfortable. Continuing on was suicide; Ramge was in a position to break _him_ and if that happened, then everything, _everything_ was for nothing.

He couldn't—what? Fail? Or do it?

It was a song he hated because it hurt so much, but on that day, he had listened anyway because that voice had sounded so… ... he couldn't remember. He had been chasing it since then.

No, he didn't want to break this. He never protected anything in his life—never was able to, not when it mattered—but maybe he could protect this thing, this complicated, precious thing between them.

"Ramge." Rachel seized him by the forearms, grip so tight it bruised with his conviction. Sia hissed at the sudden violence, flattening herself against her master in concern. "Sometimes you go on about a lot of bullshit, you know that? I don't know if I'm a good person—I don't care. But don't spout some crap about being a problem or invisible because I'm right here and I see you. You are who you are. That's more than enough.

"I'll sing for you every day for the rest of your life if that's what it'll take for you to believe me."

"...ah…" Ramge bit his lip, stifling a broken sound which seemed to originate somewhere from the deep, locked recesses of his heart. "I-I don't... don't d-deserve—" His shoulders curled, bowing his head low, the tips of his hair kissing the skin of Rachel's wrists.

"I'm the one that gets to decide that," Rachel said gently.

Fingers sightlessly crawled along his arms before clutching tight, matching bruise for bruise. Sia lifted herself up to nose Ramge in concern. "Sia…" His hold tightened even more, nails digging deep. "... I'm scared…"

Rachel stared down at him silently. The feeling was mutual; he was scared of the person holding onto him too, but there was no one he could confess that to.

**n.**

Rachel completely ignored the servant trying to discreetly direct him into the chambers set aside for him, sweeping after Ramge into the Northern prince's own. The servant assigned to Ramge barely avoided facial injury when Rachel soundly closed the door before she could follow.

The rooms inside Alexei's border fortress were modest, reflecting the austere stone architecture and muted interior design favored in North von Frosty. A fireplace had previously been attended to, the lone splash of color in all the blues and greys, lending much needed warmth both physically and visually.

Ramge carefully set Sia down on the piled comforters of the low bed. If he was surprised by Rachel's presence, it didn't show.

Leaning against the door, Rachel crossed his arms, eyeing the straight line of Ramge's back and the way his neck always seemed permanently bent to keep his face downcast. Etiquette training dictated correct posture, so this was his compromise. Ramge with his stupid, stupid stubbornness. He knew some root of their current dilemma was in that stubbornness.

"I have questions," Rachel said curtly. He couldn't ask them in front of the others—he was especially a bit wary of that Iris woman—so he was glad that the opportunity to corner Ramge alone came sooner than later when their host graciously extended his hospitality.

Ramge turned to face him, hands clasping his elbows in a defensive gesture. "Yes… I... surmised as much." He had slipped into more formal inflections, guarding his thoughts. Rachel resisted the urge to shake him.

"You're going to answer them," Rachel said firmly.  
  
"Mmm…" Cautious red eyes lifted, met unyielding blue, drifted away.

Rachel scowled at that detested, annoying noncommittal sound because he knew what it meant and he wasn't dropping the matter this time. "What happened that night?"

Pressing his lips together tightly, Ramge shook his head.

Clicking his tongue, Rachel tried again. "Who killed the Emperor and took Exestruk?"

"... I… I can't say…"  
  
Rachel inhaled deep, releasing it slowly to clamp down his mounting frustration. Losing his temper wouldn't accomplish anything, especially with Ramge. "Not even to me?"

"... I'm sorry, Rachel…"  
  
Rachel's scowl darkened; Ramge's reticence spoke louder than words and the terrible feeling that had haunted him since the assassination was now a heavy ball in his gut. "Why did you run away? No one was gonna believe you could kill anyone, but you ran away like you were guilty. Now everyone feels justified saying you did it."

"... sorry…"

"Did you panic? You should've come to me—you know you can trust me." Sighing, Rachel rubbed his temples. "At least I found you before you did anything else foolish. There's no need to go to Obliana now."

Ramge was silent.  
  
Rachel paused. "... right?"

"...I'm sor—"

"Don't apologize if you don't mean it," Rachel snapped, stomping toward the other prince. Ramge retreated, knees hitting the back of the bed, and he sat down hard in a puff of covers and fleeing cat. Rachel glared down at him, eyes burning bright. "If you're going to do whatever the hell you want anyway, don't apologize."

This time, when red eyes met his in the ensuing silence, they stayed there. Not defiant—just there.

"... you're going to plunge this continent into a war. You know that right? Just so you'll get your daddy to notice you?"

Ramge's hands balled in the covers. "That's…"  
  
"You think playing the villain's gonna make that man accept you? Love you?" Smacking a palm into the bed, Rachel leaned over close, boxing Ramge in. "Are you that desperate? What kind of love just takes and takes and takes?"

Biting his lip, Ramge finally dropped his gaze. "That's…"

"'That's?' That's what? 'That's okay?'" Rachel grabbed the front of Ramge's collar and jerked it up, forcing their eyes to meet again. "Is that really what you want? Daddy pats you on the head with a 'good boy' and then stuffs you back into a cage in the dark, forgotten until it's time for you to make Daddy happy again?"  
  
Sia lept at his fist, striking the metal gauntlet ineffectively. She clung tight, claws screeching against steel. "Leave Master Ramge alone!" she wailed.  
  
"You stay out of this," Rachel growled, trying to shake her off.

"It's okay, Sia…" Ramge gently pried her free, moving her out of the line of fire. "Rachel won't hurt me."

With an annoyed sound of self-disgust (because he was right), Rachel released him.

The silence between them stretched, broken only by pops from the hearth. It was the ugly, strained mirror of the companionable silences they used to share, reflecting the rifts between them; rifts that may have always been there, only revealed by flipping it all upside-down.

Rachel exhaled quietly. "Listen," he said, crouching down before Ramge. He looked so much like a peasant begging a king, but he didn't care. "Don't go to Obliana. Come with me. I'll keep you safe—clear your name. You don't need any of this."

"Please don't... concern yourself over this," Ramge said quietly, sounding more assertive than he looked. "You'll just create problems for yourself... I'm not worth—"

"You're worth it to me!" Ramge's body jerked at the volume and strength behind that declaration. "Why can't you—" Rachel closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Ramge's knees. "Why can't you see yourself the way I see you?"

Hesitant fingers traced the edges of his curls before sinking into the blond waves, combing through them with long, deliberate strokes. Like comforting a distraught pet—or being the one comforted.

"Sing for me," Rachel whispered.

Ramge's hands stilled.

"Will you ever?" Rachel's voice sounded so small to his ears, like when he was a child that still had so much to believe in. He wished he could better remember that bright day long ago, when he had first spotted Ramge singing a children's song to an enraptured cat; he couldn't remember the sound, but it must've been painful and it must've been lonely to draw him, a kindred spirit, to it. Because it was never about the singing and it was never about the song, but only about a melancholy soul laying bare its burdens to those that it deeply trusted, revealing its beauty through its ugliness.  
  
As the silence continued, it was apparent how foolish he had been to think he had known anything at all about his shadow.

Rachel drew back, rising. "We'll talk about this after the banquet," he said, turning away. "Just…" He faltered; he knew he lost the contest of wills, but the defeat was bitter and he couldn't accept it. "Just give some thought to what I said, okay?"

"...mmm..." Noncommittal. Rachel knew it was Ramge's way of refusing without having to say no. Ramge with his will of steel, who got ideas into his head and stuck to them no matter the cost, apologizing even as he sacrificed Rachel's heart. Who would only sing when Rachel lay dying, because only then would Rachel be unable to reach him, unable to protect him, unable to save him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
